


Greedy Jaws of Death and Chance

by bruisespristine



Series: Song Fics [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Injury, Near Death Experiences, POV First Person, Songfic, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5033575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruisespristine/pseuds/bruisespristine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A semi nonsensical song fic from Thrice, The Artist in the Ambulance about Root getting shot. Lyrics at the top and also the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greedy Jaws of Death and Chance

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably total bollocks. Sorry :D

_Look around and you'll see that at times it feels like no one really cares_  
_It gets me down but I'm still gonna try to do what's right, I know that there's_  
_A difference between sleight of hand, and giving everything you have  
_There's a line drawn in the sand, I'm working up the will to cross it and..._ _

__[Thrice- The Artist in the Ambulance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXoDtkliSgY) _ _

__Everything tastes like cordite and diamonds. This isn’t real. It can’t be real, because that look in John’s raging face says he cares, and he twists his large body to protect me from the gunfire rattling the room. I feel him stutter, and wonder if this is it, if he’s going to fall and we’re both going to die, but it doesn’t matter because none of this is real. (I don’t want to die)_ _

__It’s too dark, velvet suffocating me when I try to breathe, and my stomach feels wrong, all wrong. An animal trying to get out of me, eating me alive and its fangs are in my bones, my heart. I try to hold it in, but there’s slick on my hands and livid red spreading like a flower on John’s shirt. I’m ruining everything, again. (I’m sorry John, your shirt)_ _

__I’m pressed in his arms, against his chest like a child and then Finch is in my blurred vision, forehead crinkled in what could be fear if this was real and his hand hovers over me like a hummingbird, dancing invisible patterns with his shaking fingertips. His mouth moves unsteadily, “Ms Groves, Ms Groves. Root.” I read his lips. Neon signs thread through the sky like infection seeping from wounds in the night behind his head, stain his glasses pink. (like a sunset, like the end of something)_ _

__John shoves him out of the way, jarring me in his strong arms, and then I’m in a van. I can’t move my head and my arms are numb, tingly. I know this can’t be real. This isn’t real because John holds me against him gently as we drive, and then my world blooms black but he’s still gripping onto me with soft hands that don’t want to tear me apart but hold me together. (And why would anyone want that? I don’t deserve this steadfast pressure)_ _

__This isn’t real. Shaw’s leaning over me, her fingers deft and competent, tugging at me, at my insides. I’m tied to her from my spine, (attached by a wire, a wire at the base of my stomach that she can twist and tease and pull at, my ligaments wrapped around her artist hands, but it’s always been that way, hasn’t it?)_ _

__I can’t see, can’t feel properly, but there’s scarlet dotted on her face and she looks like a stranger, like I’ve never even met her because her lower lip is trembling and her eyebrows are knotted together, and that’s not what Shaw looks like. Shaw looks angry, not worried. I reach up to smooth her tense face because none of this is real so I can touch her if I want. She sounds just like Shaw when she swears, and then John has me, holding my arms down while Shaw works on me, and he’s whispering something in my ear but I can’t hear, can’t hear anything, just buzzing white noise crawling through my skull like bees. (my head like a honeycomb dripping soft and golden onto the table)_ _

__This isn’t real, there’s nothing about this that can be real. I think I must have died in that shootout, because I’m warm and dry and I can hear Finch tapping at his desk and Shaw. When I open my eyes Shaw is unconscious, splayed out in a chair next to my bed, her hand resting on the sheet near my own like she could have been holding it while I slept. (And what an impossible wonder that would be)_ _

__This can’t be real, I twitch my fingers without intention and the backs of our hands brush. She wakes like an animal, from nothing to total clarity in moments, and she snatches her hand away, glaring at me like she can dig a hole right through my chest (too late, Shaw, they beat you to it)_ _

__This might be real because there are none of the cracks I saw cutting through her mask left, all papered up, and only her hands are soft when she checks my bandages. (but I remember what she looked like, she looked like she didn’t want me to die and that’s enough for now)_ _


End file.
